


The Beat of His Wings

by Plainxte



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angel!Roger, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drinking, Fluff, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Recreational Drug Use, Sharing a Bed, Swearing, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27160235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plainxte/pseuds/Plainxte
Summary: Angels didn't hang around in disreputable nightclubs, looking like they were moments away from sliding under the table, wings and all.They just didn't.*A night out on the town turned into something that John really wasn't expecting.
Relationships: John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Comments: 17
Kudos: 41





	The Beat of His Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tikini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tikini/gifts).



> The happiest of happy birthdays, Tikini! 💝 🥳 ✨ 🎈 I hope it's a great one! Here's a tiny bit of Joger for you (Jå-ger?) in celebration…
> 
> Thank you so much to the Horsewomen (neigh!) for listening to me mutter about this. 💗 And many thanks to Quirkysubject and Nastally for helping me with both John's drink and the state of his flat! 💖

It began unremarkably enough: with a casual comment of Freddie's, a throwaway line in the middle of a meandering conversation. John didn't think much about it at the time. He just chalked it up to Freddie being fanciful. Perhaps he was spinning a new song, or thinking about a design job, or something.

"I think I saw an angel the other day," Freddie said, his head tilted to one side, making him look a bit like a bird. Bright eyes, sharp profile.

"Really?" Brian asked from the other side of the table, sounding vaguely intrigued.

John didn't say anything. (What do you say to a statement like that? Was he serious?)

"Yes," Freddie said, looking out of the window. "Wings and all. White and enormous."

"Did he have a halo, too?" Brian asked with a smirk. 

"No, no, don't be stupid, dear," Freddie scoffed. "He was at the club. No halos. No shiny bits." 

"Shiny… bits?" Brian repeated, close to full out laughing now.

"None of them," Freddie said, with a severe look in Brian's direction. "Nothing like that. He was just sitting there, looking at the people. Drinking. One tip of a wing on the edge of a table, brushing crumbs away..." He fell silent, then, looking like he was a million miles away. 

"Right," Brian said, glancing at John. "Um," he cleared his throat. "So, should we talk about schedules, then? About next week?"

Freddie shook himself minutely, and focused again on Brian and John. "Yes. We should," he said.

"John? Did you have the dates fixed already?" Brian prompted.

And they moved on to more mundane matters. The diversion was mostly forgotten, just one strange topic among others.

Two weeks later, though, a night in October brought a reason for John to recall Freddie's words with great clarity.

Going to the pub for a beer or two had somehow turned into a night out, and the lure of getting to hear some new music at the club seemed impossible to pass by, at least to John. He wasn't that drunk, really, but it was possible that by that stage of the evening, he wasn't thinking all that clearly.

He had lost the others at some point. But it didn't matter. They were somewhere nearby, amid the drinks and the lights, and the sea of people. John wasn't too worried. They'd find their own way back home, even if they didn't see each other again that night. Brian had barely touched a drink all through it, after all, and Freddie had seemed to have a clear plan for the way he wanted the night to go.

John nodded his head a little to the beat as he reached for his current drink. It was a big whiskey sour, good and strong, just as he liked it. He had a feeling that his immediate future was going to hold another one, too. He looked around the club, idly, enjoying the sounds and the clever shifts in the rhythm of the song. And he stopped short. 

The glass in his hand was just touching his lower lip. He put it carefully down, then, just to make sure.

It was just to make certain that he didn't spill anything, of course. Or maybe it was to try to convince himself he wasn't seeing things that weren't there. He didn't know which.

The wings. That's what he kept returning to. They were big. Impossible to ignore. Enormous, just as Freddie had said. White and sturdy. There was nothing ethereal about them. They rose above the head of the man sitting at a table a little to his right. If anything, John was reminded of an angry swan, hissing and ready to attack, powerful wings extended, about to take a painful bite out of you. Definitely not something you wanted to mess with. 

Not that the man – because it was a man, wasn't it, underneath and between those amazing things – looked particularly angry at the moment. Or like a swan. Or – 

Well, maybe he did look a bit like an angel.

John swallowed.

His mind baulked at the thought.

Angels didn't exist. Or, or, not like that. Or, at least, angels didn't hang around in disreputable and sleazy nightclubs, looking like they were moments away from sliding under the table, wings and all. 

They just didn't.

The flashing lights cast patterns on the man's hair and face, painting the wings, too, in shifting colours, multicoloured and strange. Alive.

Impossible.

The man – he couldn't be an angel, just _couldn't_ – swayed where he sat, and closed his eyes. His wings shifted with him. John thought he looked like he wasn't feeling too good; he definitely looked like he shouldn't be drinking anything more.

Fascinated, John crossed slowly over to the other table, halfway expecting the mirage of the wings to disappear as he approached. He stopped in front of the strange man ( _angel,_ his mind whispered), careful not to crowd him or to come too close. He took in the other's tousled blond hair and beautiful ( _angelic_ ) features. He was very handsome, John thought. Pretty, even. A small, perfectly shaped mouth, and large eyes with incredibly long eyelashes. Long enough to admire even from where John was standing.

It was only then that he realised.

Why wasn't anyone reacting to the – the strange sight in front of them? 

He had a sudden urge to grab the sleeve of the first person passing by and ask them, _Did you notice there's this guy with wings, actual wings sitting over there –_

_There's this angel –_

He was spurred into action by the man ( _angel_ , John's mind insisted) swaying again, listing close to the surface of the table this time.

"Hey. Are you okay?" John asked.

The man ( _angel_ ) muttered something indecipherable, but he glanced up at John.

If nothing else, maybe John could convince him to get some air. It looked like the ang– ( _the man. The man dressed up as an angel, that had to be it, of course. A very realistic Halloween costume, that was it._ John felt relieved that he had found an explanation). 

It looked like he needed it.

His pupils were blown, the black obscuring the colour of his irises almost completely. Only a thin sliver of clear blue remained.

_Oh. Not just drunk, then._

"It's just, you look like you could use some fresh air or something," John said.

"'M fine," the other mumbled.

"That's an impressive costume," John added.

"Wassat?"

"I said, I like your costume. How are those – the wings attached?" He gestured towards the remarkable things.

The other turned a baleful eye towards John. He didn't look remotely cherubic, now. His next words were remarkably clear, uttered in a high but slightly raspy voice. "How are your arms attached? How do you think, you fucking idiot?"

"Well, I –" John stammered. "Sorry. I didn't mean to –"

The man – angel – didn't dignify him with an answer. He simply stood up from his chair, leaning heavily on the table. One of his wings shot out to the side, nearly bowling another patron over.

"Hey, hey – careful, there," John said, reaching out without thinking. 

As the angel turned, his other wing smacked John right in the face.

"Ow," he said mildly. 

Well. At least the wing felt solid. And not like a costume, either. There was muscle under the feathers, there, too. He wondered if he was going to end up with a black eye for his trouble.

And still, around them, no one reacted. Everyone in the club just went on dancing and having a good time, as though nothing out of the ordinary was going on. Like a drunk and flailing angel was just an everyday occurrence.

While John was musing, the angel had finally managed to right himself and let go of the table. His muttering sounded like a long string of curses.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay?" John asked. "Do you need me to call someone –"

He trailed off when he heard the stupidity of his own words. Who would an angel call, anyway? Did he even want to know? But he had to do something, hadn't he? He couldn't leave him there, drunk and in no shape to look after himself. The least he could do was to offer to help, wasn't it?

"I should. I think. Outside," the angel said, voice even scratchier than before. Suddenly, he took off at a speed that had John scrambling to keep up with him. People scattered from before him, but it was as though they stepped aside before they realised what they were doing. It was as though they looked without seeing. Saw without understanding.

John caught up with him in front of the club where he was leaning on a handy post box, his face white and clammy. As rude as he'd been inside, John didn't even think about not following him. His wings looked almost blue, now, in the pale light of the streetlamps.

"What's your name?" John asked, for lack of anything smarter to say.

The angel shook his head a little. Perhaps he was trying to clear it. At least it looked like he wasn't going to be sick any more. He stretched out his wings and beat them once, back and forth, quickly.

 _That's – impossible,_ John thought, again. _Those things are at least as wide as he is tall. More than that, even._ He felt his hair move in the sudden breeze.

"Roger," the angel said.

"What?" 

The angel sighed. He put his hands on his hips, glaring at John. He spoke very slowly and clearly, like he was talking to a small child. Or perhaps a frightened animal. John wondered if he should feel affronted.

"You asked me what my name was," the angel said. "I told you. You can call me Roger. And your name is John."

"Right. Right," John said, more bewildered than ever. _An angel called Roger. What next?_

"Yes. Your place sounds like a good idea. Thank you," Roger said.

"What?" John felt like a broken record.

"You're wondering what to do now. If I need help. You'll end up asking me to stay over at yours. And I'm going to accept your gracious offer. With thanks. I'm just saving us both a bit of time, here," Roger said.

And with that, he set off down the street, weaving a slightly meandering path from one edge of the pavement to the other. John was left gaping after him, stunned by the turn his evening had taken. He wasn't sure what he had got himself into, and his head was buzzing with countless questions. The club, the music, and his drink, everything was completely forgotten. But not for a moment did he think about telling Roger to stop, or to not let him lead the way.

* * *

It seemed like Roger knew where he was going. If John had been thinking clearly, he might have found that slightly alarming. But as it was, he simply followed the angel on a somewhat meandering path back to John's flat. It didn't occur to him to doubt Roger, or to wonder about his motives. He felt – well, he trusted Roger. Perhaps he shouldn't have, but as it was, he found himself smiling, relaxed and happy, as he walked through the empty night-time streets behind the angel. John felt good. He wanted to be near Roger. Closer to him.

At the door to his flat, John meekly dug out his key from his pocket, letting Roger enter before him. The wings presented a challenge, though: Roger had to turn sideways and flatten them tight against his back in order to fit in through the doorway. 

Inside, Roger took up an incredible amount of space. When he unfurled his wings, he could almost touch the window and the bookshelf at the same time. John blushed as he took in the messy state of everything. He really hadn't been expecting company. He always kept his tools and his instruments in meticulous order – anything else would have been wrong, it was simple as that – but he couldn't say the same about the rest of his things. There was an empty coffee cup on the table, and the sofa was crawling with an assortment of papers and magazines. An electronics project he had been working on was spread out on the floor; everything about it was neat and orderly, but it wasn't exactly what you wanted for someone coming to spend the night to see.

Hold on. That sounded wrong. Roger wasn't here to – not at all. He was simply sleeping over. It wasn't – he was simply helping a friend who'd had too much to drink. And too many drugs. Nothing else. John did not fancy an angel. Not at all. That wasn't possible. There was no way that he was interested in an _angel_ in that way. He didn't want to think about it. Not for one second. That wasn't what this was about, at all.

(It was a good thing, then, wasn't it, that he hadn't been staring just now at the curve of Roger's back and his hips, and the way he used his wings to balance, for a bit longer than was polite, a small treacherous voice whispered in his mind.)

John wondered what the angel saw when he looked at him. He patted his hair a little self-consciously, trying not to dwell on it. 

Roger had folded his wings up a bit, and he was wandering about the flat, looking curiously at this and that. He had stopped in front of the bookcase, where John had a couple of days earlier, lost in thought, deposited for a while on a handy shelf –

 _Oh. Oh no._ John made an abortive gesture towards the angel, hoping against hope that he hadn't seen –

But it was too late. Roger quirked an expressive eyebrow at him and flashed John a quick grin, looking meaningfully from the – the toy ( _oh, no_ ) to him and back again.

John wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

Roger just moved on, though, taking a curious look at John's miniature kitchen, gaze lingering for a moment on the stack of dirty dishes in the sink. A quick and rather uncoordinated turn towards the bedroom doorway resulted in the angel hitting himself in the face with one wing, too.

"Whoops," Roger muttered. He shook his head, touching the wing with a hand, as though offended that it would do such a thing.

Childishly, it made John feel a bit better about the whole business. He rubbed his forehead where it was still smarting a little after the earlier whack, following Roger into the bedroom.

"Erm," he said, eloquently. "If you're going to kip down here, do you need some pyjamas or something? I could borrow you a pair."

"Would you?" Roger asked. "Thank you, again. Oh –" he said as John moved towards his chest of drawers. "I only need the bottoms," he said. 

John stopped and considered that. "Right. Of course. I see," he said, turning back quickly to his clothes. There was no way Roger could draw a t-shirt or anything over his wings, was there? But then, how did his other clothes work? They had to be specially made, he supposed. Or something.

He dug out a (mercifully) clean pair of pyjama trousers and handed them over, trying not to think too much about anything. Certainly not any of the questions currently occupying his mind, about whether the other shared certain anatomical features with him.

"The bathroom's that way," he pointed. "I think there's a spare toothbrush in the cabinet under the sink that you can use, and I'll just give you a towel –" 

He busied himself with trying to make sure his unexpected guest had everything he needed. There was just time to clear out the worst of the accumulated debris from tables and chairs, making the flat look a bit more inhabitable, before Roger got back. There had no time to do anything about the dishes, but otherwise it wasn't too horrible. He wasn't _bad_ at housekeeping, as such. It just wasn't very high on his list of priorities. John surveyed the results of his handiwork, satisfied, when he heard the bathroom door open.

"So, I've got some spare blankets and things here, and I don't know if you'd like a cup of tea or –"

He trailed off, the words dying on his lips. Roger was standing right in front of him, in his space, bare-chested, his wings framing his face. He was just a hair's breadth away. He was all John could see. His large blue eyes (the pupils were still dilated, but he looked calm, now, unlike before), and slightly parted lips, pink and mesmerising. John's breathing came in short gasps. There was the faintest touch of fingers at the edge of John's jaw, and he closed his eyes in anticipation.

The kiss was sloppy and it was messy, and it was the best kiss John had ever had. He hoped it would never end. He slid a hesitant hand into Roger's soft hair, and when he moaned a little in response, John shivered. Roger tasted of toothpaste, but there was something underneath it that made him think of sunlight and of summer.

When Roger finally drew away with a smile on his lips, John felt dazed. The feeling followed him into the bathroom, where he met his own incredulous eyes in the mirror.

 _I just kissed an angel,_ John thought. _An actual angel. Because he is. Isn't he?_

He felt marginally more focused when he returned to the bedroom, having brushed his teeth and changed into his own (faded, green) pyjamas. Roger was spread out on his front on top of the blankets, wings taking up most of the space in the room.

 _That's probably the only way he can sleep,_ John thought, stunned. _He can't possibly lie down on his back, can he?_

He took in the sight in front of him. The play of light from his bedside lamp, as it illuminated the lines and soft contours of the other's shoulders. The shift of muscles as he breathed. As John watched, Roger shifted and sighed deeply.

John cleared his throat. "Um. You can take the bed, of course. I'll sleep on the sofa – oh."

He looked down, where the angel had caught his wrist in a not ungentle grip. 

"Stay." 

It didn't sound like a request. 

And John didn't really feel like pressing the issue. In fact, he had no issues to press. None at all.

Somehow, they arranged themselves. Roger shuffled until they were settled. John was lying on his back, and the angel was draped half over him, his wings now restfully folded up. Still, the size of them meant that they were close enough to John's face that on every exhale, the outermost feathers moved a little.

"Stop that," Roger muttered. "Tickles." 

His wing twitched. He shifted his shoulder and moved the wing slightly, out of the way, but not without first brushing a light touch with it across John's cheek.

"Sorry," John said, feeling his face grow warm. 

It should have been a terribly awkward way of sleeping, and John should have been crushed under the other's weight, but somehow it just was comfortable. John felt safe and sleepy as he was cocooned under the blankets and with the angel's warm weight against and on top of him.

* * *

In the morning, John awoke feeling befuddled. There was too much light, slanting in from the window. It hurt his eyes. Why had he left the curtains open? He groaned and passed a hand over his eyes. He felt like death warmed up. Or something left to stew for far too long.

The previous night was a confused blur in his mind. Alcohol had been involved. Too much of it. Images of lights and loud music flitted through his head. A memory made its appearance, of Freddie dancing under a glittery disco ball, head thrown back with wild abandon, people trying to avoid his flailing limbs. And another recollection: a raspy voice, and bright blue eyes, and something about – about –

That's when he saw it.

There was a feather on his pillow. Large and sturdy. Clearly a flight feather. He touched it with a trembling fingertip. It was cool and stiff under his finger.

He stared. It hadn't been left there by mistake.

It turned out that it wasn't the only thing the angel had left behind. Over the next days, John kept finding smaller, downy feathers all over his flat. His bed was the worst offender, but there were feathers on the sofa, too. He found a tiny feather in the kitchen sink, and the jacket he had had on that night was all but covered in the things.

 _He sheds like a dog,_ John thought, exasperated. And then he immediately felt bad for being uncharitable.

And there was an unexplained empty space on one of his bookshelves.

* * *

The following Tuesday, they were on their way to see a friend of Brian's about some equipment that he might, possibly, be persuaded to lend them. They walked along in comfortable silence, everyone deep in their own thoughts.

And then Freddie stopped all of a sudden, as though he had hit a wall. Brian and John both continued walking for several steps before they noticed that Freddie wasn't following.

"Freddie? What is it?"

John followed Freddie's line of sight.

On the next corner, someone was standing. Someone with blond, mussed-up hair. A denim jacket combined with light blue jeans. Trainers. 

And a pair of white wings.

Suddenly it was difficult to breathe.

"Is that –" Brian began lowly.

"It is," Freddie whispered.

And in front of them, Roger turned and smiled. A dazzling, brilliant smile that lit up the grey afternoon. There was something... well, devilish was obviously not the right word for it. Something whimsical, maybe, in his expression, that eased some of the tightness in John's chest.

"There you are," Roger said, his voice just as John remembered it. Pleasant and with that husky note to it that made him want to hear more. Roger's wings moved as he spoke, as a kind of punctuation to his words. 

"We are?" Freddie sounded bewildered.

"John, do you think you could introduce me?" The angel ignored Freddie and Brian's incredulous stares.

"John, are you –" Freddie started.

"Freddie, Brian," John rushed to cut him off before he came up with difficult questions that he had no idea how to answer. "This is, um, Roger. We met at the club, the other night."

"Did you, now?" Freddie looked from John to Roger and back, eyes wide. Roger shook Freddie's hand, still smiling.

"I never got the chance to thank John properly, or to convince him I'm not going to cause him any trouble. See, I'm afraid I took advantage of John's hospitality when we met," Roger said, indicating that they should all follow him.

"Oh?" Freddie fell into step with the angel, clearly fascinated. John couldn't blame him, but he couldn't help a small flash of what almost felt like jealousy, either.

Roger looked over his shoulder at John, waggling his eyebrows obnoxiously. It was as though he knew what John had been thinking. 

"I was a bit, erm, under the weather," Roger continued. "And John was kind enough to offer me a place to stay for the night."

Freddie turned to look at John. He smirked. _Positively diabolically,_ John thought. " _Really?_ Tell me _everything,"_ Freddie all but crooned.

The angel laughed. "I owe John thanks, at the very least. How about we all get some drinks? My treat." There was a pub at the end of the street, and it seemed like the obvious thing to do was to follow the angel in.

"Freddie's not going to let you live this down, ever," Brian muttered to John as he held the door of the pub open for him. "He's not going to stop until you've given him every last detail, and then some."

John could feel the blush rising in his cheeks. "Typical," he mumbled.

Freddie and Roger seemed to be getting along fabulously well already. As though they were old friends. They had commandeered a cosy table in a corner, and there was already a half pint in front of Freddie. 

"Sit down," Roger said expansively. "Your drinks are coming up."

John folded his scarf over the top of his jacket, placing it on the back of a chair before taking a seat. He looked around the room, scanning people's reactions. It looked like it was the club all over again: no one stared, and no one commented on the sight in front of them. It was as though the other people didn't notice – or perhaps they didn't see – Roger's wings at all. It was all very odd. Somehow, he didn't feel like he could ask the angel about it. 

Freddie and Brian, on the other hand, were definitely sneaking furtive glances at the wings every other second, though. 

It was a relief when he could turn his attention to the drink in front of him, and escape Freddie's probing eyes, and the embarrassment of being near Roger after that night, when – well, nothing had happened. So why did it feel like something had? 

John slurped eagerly on his beer, when he felt something brush across his shoulder. Glancing up, he realised that Roger had stretched out a wing to curl around him.

It felt... Comforting. Good. Surprisingly familiar. He wasn't sure what to think. When he turned back to the others, he found Freddie still staring. The suspiciously amused expression on his face seemed to have camped there and showed no sign of moving off soon.

"So, John. Tell me. Does this mean that you're..." Freddie hesitated for a moment. "Under his wing, then, are you?"

"Very funny," John muttered.

"Oi," Roger said. "If anyone's going to be making horrible puns here, it's me." He shook a finger at Freddie. "Watch it."

"Or what?" Freddie grinned, unrepentant. "Are you afraid I'm going to, um, clip your wings, perhaps?"

Brian snorted into his beer. The corner of Roger's lip was twitching, and somehow that helped John overcome his embarrassment.

"That's terrible, Freddie," John said. "You're just winging it, you know, aren't you?"

"Oh, now you're all doing it," Roger complained. "Ganging up on me. I should have known." But he was clearly enjoying himself, sitting relaxed at the table.

"Not thinking of taking flight, I hope?" Brian raised his glass.

They all laughed. It was as though Roger had always been a part of their little group. 

John had no idea what would happen next, or what he had got himself into. But he couldn't find it in himself to worry. Leaning back, feeling Roger's wing gently cradling him, his friends around him, he felt happy, and he felt carefree. Whatever the future held, he was along for the ride.

**Author's Note:**

> There's now also a podfic of the beginning of this story, read by the wonderful Nastally! Do check it out! It's great! ✨
> 
> And come talk to me in the comments, do!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Beat of His Wings [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27477298) by [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally)




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